


so darkness i became

by seoafin



Series: nightlight [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Choking, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Established Relationship, F/F, Gen, Gun Violence, Minor Violence, Not A Happy Ending, Not the good kind, damian wayne is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 20:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15517497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seoafin/pseuds/seoafin
Summary: dick grayson is a talon.you wish he was dead instead.nightlight AUdick grayson/reader





	so darkness i became

**Author's Note:**

> aka when i have no idea what to name things i use random song lyrics aka i love florence + the machine she is a literal GODDESS.  
> anyway thank you for that anon in my tumblr inbox who requested this...this is probably the longest one shot i've written (not including the couple of stories in my WIP folder) but still...hnghhh i was inspired

Somebody’s watching you.

It’s an odd, bone-chilling feeling that has you on edge as you watch Damian throw a large stick over Titus’s head. You turn, scanning the park area. It’s unusually empty for a Saturday night, but still there are the occasional passing joggers, dog walkers, and children running amok within the parameters of their mother’s careful gazes.

There’s nobody there.

No matter where you go, the feeling follows every step you make. Your skin crawls, not because of the thinly veiled bloodlust that makes the hairs on your neck stand, but because it’s _familiar._

It’s a feeling you’re accustomed to. Years of working as a hitman with a target painted on your back every second of the day have desensitized you. You may have exchanged the dangerous lifestyle for a much more placid one, but the instincts and skillset you’ve garnered over the years have stayed with you.

And right now, every nerve in your body is screaming at you to run.

“Damian,” you call out his name and he pauses in the process of waving some stick he found five minutes ago above Titus’s tail wagging form. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

His eyes narrow, and you mentally groan. “Where are you going?” He demands, hand tightening on the stick. There’s an underlying vulnerability in his eyes that belies the harshness of his tone. Below him, Titus whines as if sensing the sudden change in atmosphere and your heart breaks.

The boy’s still reeling from Dick’s sudden disappearance. It’s been six months. You haven’t seen Tim since his sudden announcement in the middle of breakfast that he’d find Dick. And Jason. There’s an unspoken, tenuous truce that has him occasionally dropping by the mansion much to Damian’s ire, and Bruce and Alfred’s delight.

Bruce, well—

For someone who spent the majority of their life reading faces, body language, gauging reactions and expressions—

Bruce is a closed book: chained shut and locked in a steel trunk.

He invited you to stay, permanently. But you can’t. There’s reminders of Dick in every crook and nanny of the house.

You can never tell with Bruce either. His stoic face betrays nothing. But sometimes, just sometimes, you catch him staring at the wall, a faraway look in his eyes, shoulders slumped, exhaustion pulsing off him in spades.

He’s happier when Jason’s around. You can say that with certainty. With all their exchanges involving a terse Jason and curt one worded responses, Jason may not be able to see it, but you can. Alfred only makes Jason’s favorites when he’s over, and Bruce breaks out of his study at least once to drop by to the library where he knows Jason slinks around.

“Ice cream,” you say quickly, knowing Damian’s penchant for sweets. “There’s a store down the block.” You’re not wrong. Betsie’s, with its dirty, gray colored floor tiles and broken fluorescent lights that envelopes the store in sporadic lighting is Gotham’s go-to ice cream shop.

Dick took you there, once.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

“What flavor do you want?” He opens his mouth. “And what flavor does Titus wants?” He closes his mouth.

“Chocolate.” Silence, and then: “Tt. As if you could comprehend the grandeur of Titus’s refined palate. I’ll come with you.” He says, tone leaving no room for argument.

Translation 1): I’ll bless you with my presence.

Translation 2): Don’t leave me alone.

Translation 3): Don’t _go._

He crosses his arms, a defiant set to his shoulders, daring you to object.

Your lips unwittingly curve into a smile. It seems like a lifetime ago when Dick first brought Damian to your shared apartment in Bludhaven. Luckily, when it came to handling the temperamental teen, Dick had given you all the pointers in the book.

“You know, there’s something else I need help with.” He looks intrigued. “Something only you can help me with.” The effect is immediate: his posture straightens as he perks up.

“What is it?” He asks eagerly.

Sliding your hand into your pocket, you’re glad when your hand hits a crumpled piece of paper. You take it out and open it. You’re lying out of your teeth at the moment, but hopefully Damian won’t catch you in your lie. “Alfred gave me a list of some some things he needs at home.”

He deflates. Slightly. Then he snatches the paper out of your hand, “Bleach, detergent, air freshener…” Scowling, he holds the paper out by the tips of his fingers. “I refuse to be your errand boy.”

You kneel down to his level. “Please?” He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding your gaze. “For Alfred? For me?”

He goes quiet, and then he rolls his eyes with as much as gusto as a thirteen year old preteen can manage. There’s no hint of the lethal assassin bred into his bones, and it strikes you as odd. This is the carefree Damian Dick strove so hard to coax out.

You only wish he could be here see the results of his efforts.

“Tt. Pennyworth could use the help I suppose. Titus will take vanilla then. Come Titus.” He turns with Titus nipping at his heels. Stops. With his back towards you, he says, “Fifteen minutes.”

Ah, so you couldn’t fool him completely.

“I’ll sic Titus on you if you aren’t back by then.”

You haven’t really laughed much since Dick disappeared. It comes easier now. You laugh. Damian relaxes. And somehow, you can tell that he’s trying hard not to smile.

“Fifteen minutes,” you echo back, watching his profile fade into the setting sun. It’s getting dark out now, you need to be quick.

Then you leave the park, and it takes all of five steps for you to pinpoint the source of the gaze that seems to follow your every move, lying in wait, like a predator ready to pounce.

You look up: there’s a dark figure on the rooftop of the building right in front of you, body slanted in your direction.

Bingo.

Your brain kicks into gear and the first thing you do is make sure Damian is gone. Then you start walking, turning into the nearest alley in the corner of the street. It’s dark, and it takes you several turns before you find the fire escape.

It takes you five minutes to scale it, landing on the roof of the building. Five minutes too long.

You’re rusty. Too rusty. The kind of rusty that gets you killed.

Mentally resolving to restart training with Jason, you scan your surroundings. There’s an electric box in the middle of the roof, but nothing else. The shadow is gone.

At least, that’s what you think.

There’s a blur in the darkness, somewhere in the shadows that stretch from the electric box. You can barely discern a figure within the depths of the inkiness, even for your trained eyes, yet you can feel familiar set of eyes watching you, scrutinizing you. A familiar shiver runs down your spine, not in fear, but rather your body’s way of telling you that yes, this man in the shadows is someone you are intimately acquainted with.

You don’t want to believe it. Denial is hot on your mind as you slowly approach the silhouette, body tense and ready to spring at the slightest movement.

It’s a shot in the dark, but at this point you don’t have anything else to go on but instinct and a meager sense of self preservation.

“Dick?”

The figure in the shadows stirs at the sound of your voice (or his name?) and the movement would have escaped your eyes if it weren’t for the fact that the gold rimmed goggles, a tell tale sign of a  _Talon_ glints in the light of the setting sun.

You take another step. More softly, “Dick.”

Out of the dark, he emerges, as still as the wall behind him. The black of the suit he wears blends into the background, shrouded by darkness.

“Hey,” your mouth is dry. Or maybe you can’t find the words. “It’s been a while. Everyone misses you, you know?” You think about Damian, Jason, Tim, Bruce.

You think about the last time you kissed him, hands tangled in his hair, and how he had held your face in his hands. He had stroked your face with his thumbs, slowly inching you closer to him before recapturing your lips in another kiss.

The silence weighs heavy on your shoulders. _Come back to me_ carves itself on your tongue, but you swallow it down.

The man (if you can even call him that) in front of you is not Dick Grayson.

Taking a shaky gulp of air, you squeeze your eyes shut, wishing this is all a nightmare. When you wake up, it’ll be with Dick’s arms wrapped around you in the shitty Bludhaven apartment you used to share. He was a cuddly sleeper, even knowing your aversion to touch. Somehow, throughout the night his arm would snake out from under the sheets and drag you into the warmth of his body.

He’s still there when you open your eyes, unmoving in way that suggests complete discipline. The exact opposite of Dick.

You can’t be here anymore. It was a fool’s mistake to think that a small part of Dick lived within the Talon currently occupying his body.

You take a step back.

He’s quick. Unearthly quick. All you can do in the moment is whip out the knife you keep in your ankle boot and try your best to defend against whatever this stranger has up his sleeve. You catch a glimpse of his arm as it shoots out at a speed you can’t comprehend, hand grabbing your wrist and slamming you to the floor before you can lunge.

You grunt as he pins you down to the floor with surprising efficiency. The sheathed knives strapped to his suit dig into your skin as you struggle underneath him, trying to break out of his grasp. Fists curled, you swipe up at his mask. You miss because he turns, and your fist only manages to catch one of the red lens on his face.

You’d like to say you’re rusty.

But you know that you couldn’t hurt Dick, not in anyway, not even if you tried.

It would kill you. What remains of you anyway.

 _So weak_ , the voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like the Madame crones. _So disappointing_. _Succumbing to the temptations of_ ** _man_** _._ The click of her tongue is so sharp, heard with such clarity you swear you feel your legs buckle.

 _Weak, weak,_ **_weak_** _._

The glass splinters at your punch, drawing a jagged line of blood on your knuckles. Gloved fingers wrap against both your wrists, leaving you immobile and defenseless. Blood rushes to your ears with a roar and the only thing you can hear is your heartbeat, stomach dropping at the sight above you.

Blue eyes gaze back at you dispassionately. Calculating, apathetic... _vacant._

A shiver rips through your body violently.

Tears spring to your eyes, not from the pain (you’ve grown numb to it), but from the fact that this... _Talon_ is irrevocably Dick. You can’t hide behind denial anymore because the cold, hard reality is laid out beneath you in large, bold letters.

Dick is a Talon.

You wish he was dead instead.

Broken, hysterical laughter falls from your lips, arms limp under his grip. Meanwhile, the man above you (you refuse to call him Dick) hasn’t made a noise. Just stares. Watches you with the eyes of a predator unwilling to let its prey out of its sight.

Some part of you, the assassin part you like to think you’ve discarded, bred on blood and carnage and the cries of the girls who failed to become you; the part tuned into lethal intent knows, just knows, with the same instinct that’s maneuvered you out of tricky situations in the past, that if you move an inch, he’ll slit your throat.

You can’t even tell if he’s breathing under the black suit wrapped around his body. You don’t even think you’ve seen him blink.

“Just kill me already.”

His body imperceptibly stills, eyes narrowed into slits. There’s nothing remotely resembling Dick in this stranger, but the face he wears and the way he moves, yet your traitorous body wants nothing more than to pull him into your arms with same touch you abhor from anybody else.

You force down a cry.

Your heart jumps into your throat when a hand comes up to your face, body tensing at the rough contact. The glove is rough, thick---built to withstand blades and bullets--- not meant for the light touch of a lover’s caress.

For what seems like an eternity, unfamiliar blue eyes bear down at you as a hand rests against your cheek. Your breaths come out unevenly, as you try to focus on staying calm instead of letting your emotions run rampant. The thudding in your ribcage stabilizes, and a calm washes over you placating every erratic emotion in your body and once again, you’re reminded of how much Dick has upturned your life in every aspect.

For the first time long time you’re starting to feel like the person you were before Dick entered your life.

You don’t know what the Talon is doing, stroking your face with a familiarity that you know it is merely emulating.

For all you know, it could be nothing more than a trick.

One of your hands is free from the confines of his grip and twitches, desperate for worn leather handle of the second blade you keep strapped to your torso.

If you could onl--

You freeze. The Talon’s hand slides down, thumbing the outline of your parted lips in a slow, concentrated motion that has your blood turning cold. Your heart is furiously pumping, so loud you can hear it in your ears. Over and over, he doesn’t stop. The weight on your lips is comforting in a way that makes your heart splinter in your chest. You want to break his jaw. Your fist clenches.

And that’s when you hear it: breathing.

His mouth is obscured by black fabric, yet harsh breathing enters your ears as you stare, eyes wide. You almost believe you’re imagining the faintest hint of conflict in his eyes, a sliver of emotion that peeks through the apathy.

It stops.

You don’t have to react when hands encircle your throat and _squeeze_. Immediately jolted into action, your fingers scramble to peel his hands off your neck but it’s an ironclad grip that feels like a vice. The rough leather of the glove bites into your skin. You can’t breathe. You’re sputtering for air, gasping and trying to pull him of you and trying to jab your knee up into his abdomen, all while he cuts off your air supply, face eerily blank.

He remains unfazed at your writhing form and only tightens his hold.

“D-Dic--”

Black dots replace your vision and you think you’ve come to terms with the fact that you may or may not die by Dick’s hand.

Somehow, it’s fitting.

Before everything turns black, you swear you can see a fragment of guilt in his eyes, screaming at you to _fight_ but your body is numb.

Two thoughts penetrate your mind through the haziness of your air deprived brain.

The first: It’s been over fifteen minutes.

The second: You didn’t get Damian’s ice cream.

You black out.

 

 

\-------

 

 

Jason leaps across the edge of the building, using the momentum to land on his side and rolls over to best minimize the impact of the jump.

The Talon’s gone, but Jason’s got a pretty good direction on where it was headed right before he got fucking stabbed by that _thing_ that was once his brother.

You, he was headed towards you.

He touches his shoulder. Shit. He’s bleeding, but it’s a shallow wound, one meant to slow rather than kill. His helmet is gone, thanks to the Talon who threw it down the side of the building. He hopes the darkness will disguise him.

Some fucked up part of him wants to take that as proof that Dick’s somewhere in there: the same brother that promised him a home and a place to belong even when they weren’t exactly on the best of terms.

 _Yeah right_ , he thinks dryly. _He only stabbed you. It could’ve been worse. Like, he could’ve killed you or something._

_Been there, done that._

And that’s when Jason sees the remnants of the man that used to be his brother, on the rooftop of the building right across from him, hunched over your limp body, blade in hand. The gold rimmed goggles are cracked, most likely the unwelcome recipient of your quick thinking.

Blue slits peek out from behind the red lens.

 _Aw,_ _fuck_.

He aims the gun in his hand. The angle from the rooftop reveals a perfect headshot.

He wavers.

Can he do it? Shoot his brother?

He tries to tell himself that Dick is gone, eradicated, _dead_. He’s good at that. Compartmentalizing. But there’s a small nagging voice, telling him that maybe Dick isn’t gone. That with the combined efforts of you, Tim, Bruce, hell even Damian that Dick isn’t completely lost.

He feels like that kid again.

The one who hoped, even with rope digging into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, and the taste of metallic blood on his tongue, that Bruce would come for him.

He thought that kid died.

Jason fires a warning shot first. It pierces the air and the Talon freezes, blade angled at your neck. The blade convulses in his hand, as if he’s physically restraining himself from gutting you.

It’d take him too long to reach you, so the only option he has at this moment is to shoot. Usually there’s no hesitation, no second guessing when he kills. But this is different.

This is _family_.

To Jason’s astonishment, the talon stands. Straightens. Then he looks up, straight into Jason’s eyes as every muscle in his body contracts at the soullessness behind the normally expressive orbs.

It floors him, pins him to the ground, while the Talon quickly darts away with a swiftness that is reminiscent of the man he used to be.

Then he’s gone.

 

 

\------

 

“Remove your mangy hands this instant Todd!”

Damian, the fucking spitfire demon from _hell_ moves with some kind of speed that shouldn’t be available to a kid that’s like, ten. He was checking your pulse, when the damn brat appeared out of nowhere, kicking him in the gut so hard that his teeth _rattled_.

He can see you regaining regaining consciousness, but it’s hard to make sure when you’re trying to defend yourself against a ten year old on steroids waving around a sword longer than him.

The scuffling of footsteps is what wakes you up.

“Get off of me you little shit--!”

Eyes snapping open, you bolt upright. Then wince. It hurts to breathe. It feels like you were hit by a car. Every lungful of breath you take feels like like you’re swallowing shards of glass. You can feel bruises blooming across your ribs, and you know that tomorrow there will be a more permanent blemish.

Right now, you can’t focus on the pain as Damian is currently trying to stab Jason in the eye with a sword you have no idea where the hell he pulled out of.

“Damian,” you croak out. You sound like someone put your voice through the shredder. “What are you doing?”

Momentarily caught up in trying to maim and defend respectively, they apparently hadn’t noticed your waking.

Jason has Damian’s wrists in a lock, holding them above his head. Damian thrashes, feet dangling a few feet off the floor as he kicks anything within distance of his short legs. The katana skids on the floor when Jason throws it, scowling.

If his hands weren’t occupied, you’re pretty should he’d be pointing them at Jason accusatorily,

“This...this _barbarian_ was--” there’s an angry red streak across his face, and an identical one on Jason’s.

“Listen here you shitty brat, I wasn’t doing anything!”

Damian sticks out his tongue, struggling out of Jason’s grip. “Oaf! Lout! Neanderthal--!”

It doesn’t take you long to place the pieces together.

Trying to rise to your feet, you stumble over and Damian is unceremoniously dropped to the floor, landing on his butt with a glower as Jason is at your side in the next second.

He throws your arm around his neck and helps you stand. You’re grateful for his help. Your legs feel like jelly and your cognizant abilities are nowhere near normal.

Unlatching yourself from Jason, you kneel down in front of Damian, attempting a smile. “Thank you, but my virtue remains intact.” You hear a choked noise and roll your eyes.

Damian looks defiant, cautious. “...You mean to say he didn’t infringe upon your honor?”

Scoffing, Jason shakes his head. Damian bares his teeth. You think that this may take a little longer than needed.

Off to the side of the roof, you can see an unattended plastic bag filled with supplies.

“I’m sorry I forgot the ice cream.”

Vaguely, you wonder where Titus has gone, but knowing Damian, probably at the mansion or obediently waiting around the corner.

“That is…” he swallows. “Insignificant. However, those bruises are not.”

Damian is smart, suspicious, with a pride that will suffer at being lied to.

You exchange a grim look with Jason.

_He can’t know._

Luckily, Jason speaks up, clearing his throat. “It was me.”

“Wai--”

“She snuck up on me.” Regret flickers in his eye, but it isn’t from what Damian thinks it is. He blames himself for not being quick enough. You wish you could tell him that it wasn’t his fault.

“Tt. As expected of a--”

“Damian.”

Lips flattened in displeasure, he refuses to look at you. “ _Damian_.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he hisses out. He turns to Jason. “I apologize for…accosting you.”

“Damn straight.” Jason says without missing a beat, thoroughly enjoying watching Damian squirm. He smirks. “That apology almost makes getting killed worth it.”

Boys.

“Well, I’m out.” He nods at you, a quick goodbye. He turns to leave, but you grab his arm.

“Jason, your shoulder.” Your attention is pulled to the blood staining his cracked shoulder armor.

He shrugs. “I’ll take care of it.” You let it go. Jason can take care of himself, and the last thing you want him to feel is stifled. Hesitating, he glances at Damian in the corner, picking up the discarded grocery bag. His voice lowers. “Take care of yourself.” Jaw set, he surveys the surrounding buildings with a critical eye.

“He’ll be back.”

Those are the last words you hear before he aims the grapple gun, shoots at the nearest building, and disappears into the darkness.

The setting sun casts an unearthly glow over the city as Damian makes his way over to you.

In silence, the both of you watch the last of the sun’s rays disappear and give away to darkness. The scene is beautiful, and you only wish you could share it with the one person you want to see more than anything.

You collect yourself, ready to climb back down to the alley when Damian stops you.

“You can’t.” He mumbles, eyes downcast. He looks like the child he should be. “Grayson will be back.” He sounds so earnest, so desperate that it leaks from his tone.

Then he looks up, eyes resolute. Your heart goes out to the boy, too young to be confronted with the idea of abandonment and death.

“Damian--”

“When Grayson comes back, he’ll be in need of your companionship.” He urges, hand clutching the fabric of your sleeve, raw vulnerability written all over his face.

Your heart sinks as you reach out to ruffle his hair. You half expect him to pull away, spouting something about how he’s not a child, but instead he stays put, a frown on his face.

“You’ll wait for him...right?”

“Yeah,” you murmur hoarsely, voice thick with unshed tears. You pull him into your arms and he goes rigid. Relaxes.

“He’s more than worth waiting for.”

You release a shaky breath you were unaware you were holding. Phantom fingers brush your neck almost coaxingly, and you shiver. Empty eyes. Hushed breathing.

You think back to Jason’s words, and you realize now that it was more than a mere prediction.

It was a warning:

_He’ll be back._

**Author's Note:**

> this is 100% unbeta-d bc im lazy  
> this could technically be considered an AU to my nightlight series??? like the rea is the same but ya different stuff.
> 
> hmu @ seoafin.tumblr.com


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